


xviii

by laurxnts, vannes



Series: More Landmarks, Less Landmines [1]
Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat, Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Birthday Presents, Give Makkachin A Break, Humor, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Nicaise's POV, assholes in love, family bonding time, the ot6
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-07
Updated: 2016-12-07
Packaged: 2018-09-07 02:42:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8779969
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurxnts/pseuds/laurxnts, https://archiveofourown.org/users/vannes/pseuds/vannes
Summary: Nicaise expects his eighteenth birthday to come and go like any other. He doesn’t expect his friends to get involved, or to return home to a clearly planned party, or to get involved in a game of twister with his least favorite people in the world. He supposes that eventually, he’ll get used to them all surprising him.-AKA Welcome to the Captive Prince/Yuri!!! On Ice crossover that No One asked for but Everyone should read.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This is an AU set in the Yuri on Ice universe involving a lot of the Captive Prince characters too in which the six of them are all close friends, all figure skaters (more or less), and spend a ridiculous amount of time in each other's company forming what is probably the strangest makeshift adoptive family ever.
> 
> This series is basically going to be a bunch of non-linear one shots written by Alex or Emma, with the occasional multi-chapter plot fic thrown in. we’ll clarify in the author’s notes of each fic the relative time periods, because there’s going to be a lot of jumping around for character and relationship studies. Each fic can be read as a standalone with the basic principle that it is set in the universe of the six of them being a friendship group. Kind of like how you can watch a random episode of a sitcom and still follow it!

    Nicaise skates to the edge of the rink, bracing himself on the bars, and lets out a shaky breath. His cheeks are flushed pink from the exertion of practicing the quadruple flip _eleven times_ in a row. If Victor can do it, why can’t he? He’s mollified a little by the memory of Yuuri falling onto the ice the one and only time he’d ever performed a quadruple flip during a competition but it still bothers him that nine out of the eleven times, he fell to the ice. His fingers are numb from it; from the drag of his nails against the smooth surface of the ice as he forced himself to his feet; his hands are raw and grazed from every _slap_ against the ice as he braced himself. He brushes the flecks of ice from the blades of his skates, as carefully as he can so he does not catch his skin on the newly-sharpened boots.

    Gingerly, he steps off the ice and lets himself feel the ache of his body. His fingers tremble as he unties his laces and pulls them off his sore feet; pulling down his sock so that he can brush his thumb over the newly forming bruises across his skin. And then, he just sits.

    The changing room in his local rink is almost empty and Nicaise lets himself sit and stare at nothing; the throb of exhaustion and overworked muscles taking up most of the attention of his brain. A locker clicks from a few rows away; a loud and abrasive noise, and Nicaise jumps.

    There’s a moment in which he thinks it could be—it could be _him_ —he brings children to this rink to practice too; it’s how Nicaise knows the rink—before he reminds himself that _he_ isn’t in France at the minute; it’s the Junior Grand Prix right now, he’s not in France. He has to repeat it to himself more times than once before the urgent thud of his heart dissipates; like the calming of waves after a storm. The sweat on his skin is cold and clammy; half from the workout and half from the fleeting moment he spent on the razor thin edge of a panic attack.

    In his pocket, his phone chimes. He pulls it out and checks it; _Victor Nikiforov has tagged you in a photo_. Thanks, Instagram. He swipes the notification away without checking it; he doesn’t particularly have any urge to see another unflattering photo of himself captioned with some kind of emoji-written code that Nicaise, even with all his youth and intelligence, has no ability to decipher.

    He looks down at his phone for a few moments. The date stands out, bright white against his lock screen of the burnt-orange Philippine sunset. Standing out in juxtaposition to the warm colours of his lock screen, the date is unavoidable and it burns into Nicaise’s eyelids when he closes his eyes. Six years ago, today would have been spent being showered in expensive gifts that Nicaise convinced himself made up for the sickly, painful, unwelcome press of fingers. Five years ago, it felt like a pressing weight; a countdown; a clock; the last seconds ticking down until _he stops loving you_. But now… now Nicaise knows this day will pass like any other day. The year will tick over unmentioned and Nicaise will go on; eighteen instead of seventeen.

    Making sure the guards are securely in place on the blades of his skates, he shoves them into his bag and zips it up before swinging it over his shoulder. In the reception, some girl around Nicaise’s age says _‘is that Nicaise Nasino, the figure skater?’_ in some shrill and excited voice but Nicaise does not stop. He has never particularly been good with his fans. He tries, sometimes, to answer their questions, sign their phone cases, and pose for their photos but as much as he _tries_ … he’s not Victor.

    Out of all of them, Victor is the only one with an unforced and natural charm with his fans. Laurent is private, even despite the collection of gold medals stamped with his name, and the only time he is ever particularly hands on with fans is when they are young. Nicaise has seen it more than once; children recognizing Laurent at the rinks and begging for an autograph only to find themselves hand in hand with _world champion Laurent de Vere_ as he carefully skates with them around the rink. It’s undeniable that Laurent has a natural gift with young fans and the sweetness of it makes Nicaise sick, though not as sick as he feels as he watches Victor pander to his relentless fans. Ugh.

    Yuri isn’t _terrible_ with fans—okay, yes, he’s terrible—but it’s part of his image. He calls himself the Ice Tiger of Russia (Nicaise knows he named himself that no matter how much he protests it was given by the fans), and some call him the Russian Punk, so none of his fans particularly complain about his icy attitude and snappy remarks. Yuuri is like Victor and Laurent; he’s sickly sweet when he’s confident enough to talk to his fans, but most of the time he tries his best to avoid them, just like all of them do.

    Except Victor.

    Nicaise rides the taxi journey back to the house Victor has been renting in relative silence, leaning his temple against the cool glass and staring out at the passing city. Eighteen. He’s an adult. The thought burns his lungs and clouds his mind and no matter how much he tries he can’t get the memory of _him_ out of his mind. _You’re getting too old, Nicaise_ … and he hates it; he hates it—

    His key slides into the lock and when the lights flicker on in the living room, Nicaise starts at the sight of five people stood in the living room.

    “ _Fuck,_ ” he lets out a breathy noise, his heart pounding in his chest, like a storm battering against glass windows. He hates being scared; they should all know that by now. “What’s—”

    Laurent takes a step forward from the rest of them and Nicaise notices the table behind them as Laurent breaks away; he notices the cake sitting there and the pile of carefully wrapped gifts. He blinks, mouth slack with shock.

    “Happy birthday,” they all chorus and Nicaise turns to Laurent.

    “You—”

    “I told them,” Laurent says, and there’s an edge of apology to his voice.

    “You _remembered_ ,” It’s the only thing Nicaise can manage. Laurent gives him a strange look, only for a fraction of a second, and Nicaise hates that he gave something away. He averts his gaze and knows his cheeks are hot. “I mean—”

    “Of course I remembered,” Laurent says, as if that were obvious.

    “I didn’t want—I just wanted today to be over,” Nicaise says defiantly, turning back to the rest of the group.

    He looks at them all in turn for a long while: at Yuuri as he smiles brightly with a stack of birthday cards clutched to his chest; at Victor in his best clothes, barely concealing his excitement even though it isn’t _his_ birthday; at Damen fiddling with a matchbox to light the candles on the birthday cake (they want him to blow out candles? How disgusting); at Yuri as he leans casually on the edge of the table with his arms folded and an expression like he doesn’t even want to _be here_ —Nicaise smirks at that—and then finally back to Laurent, to the cautious hopefulness in Laurent’s eyes.

    “It’s your eighteenth birthday,” Victor chimes from behind Laurent. “Did you think we were just going to let it pass?”

    “I was hoping,” Nicaise says, but he isn’t so sure he means it. The edge of his voice shakes as Damen lifts up the cake — with the candles lit — and grins at him. “I’m not blowing out those candles.”

    Laurent lets out a breath of laughter. “You have to, it’s tradition.”

    Something burns in the back of Nicaise’s eyes; clutches at his chest in a way that Nicaise doesn’t really recognize. It’s not the same tightness that comes ominously before a panic attack; it’s something _warm_ that makes his heart beat an unsteady rhythm against his ribcage. He takes a shaky step forwards and drops his training bag to the ground as Damen lifts up the cake.

    “Wait!” Yuuri cries, taking a step forward. “We should sing!”

    Yuri looks mortified. “I’m not singing.”

    “If anyone sings, I won’t hesitate to murder you,” Nicaise says, crinkling his nose.

    “We _should_ sing,” Victor says. “On the count of three? один, два, три...”

    And then Nicaise witnesses the most disastrous attempt at a happy birthday song he has ever seen. It’s horrific: Victor starts to sing something Russian that Nicaise doesn’t recognize; Yuuri sings in Japanese; Laurent laughs through attempts at singing the French version that Nicaise _does_ recognize; Damen sings an English song; and Yuri snaps out  ‘ _I said I’m not singing’_ when Victor drapes his arm around Yuri’s shoulders.

    “We probably should have agreed on a language,” Yuuri says sheepishly when this horrific spectacle finally draws to a close.

    “You were all supposed to sing the English one!” Damen protests. “We don’t know the Russian or Japanese one!”

    “I don’t know the English one!” Yuuri says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry, Nicaise.”

    Nicaise folds his arms, his lips twitching into a smile. “The candles have almost burnt out. You got wax all over the cake. Idiots.”

    Damen swears.

    “Blow them out, Nicaise,” Laurent says, nudging him so that he stumbles a little closer to the cake. “Before the entire thing goes up in flames and we have to call out emergency services to extinguish Victor’s house.”

    “Good,” Nicaise says, flashing Victor a smile that does nothing to lesson the mild heartbreak in Victor’s eyes.

    When he turns back to the cake, with its carefully looped iced writing that says _Bon Anniversaire, Nicaise_ that can only have been the work of Laurent, the funny beat of his heart starts again. It’s a strange feeling; no one has ever—when he was a child, they didn’t have enough money to—he had too many siblings for birthdays to be celebrated and—and then with _him,_ it was—Nicaise swallows down the feeling in his throat, trying to push aside the flurry of thoughts, and lets his eyes flicker up to the rest of the group as he draws in a breath, and blows.

    Yuuri, Victor, and Damen cheer when the candles blow out.

    Nicaise hates them.

    He hates them all—

    “I—” He says, and he can hear the thickness in his own throat. How disgusting.

    Laurent is pulling him into his arms before he can really register it happening.

    “ _Bon Anniversaire_ ,” Laurent murmurs into their hug, his arms wrapped tightly around Nicaise. Nicaise hates being hugged, but with Laurent it isn’t so bad. He curls his fingers into Laurent’s jacket and exhales. When Laurent mumbles to him again, he’s still speaking in French. “I hope you don’t mind that I told them. I couldn’t let your birthday pass without celebrating. You deserve that.”

    Nicaise thinks he might cry, and hates it. He presses his fingers into Laurent’s shoulders. “No. It’s— I don’t mind. I think it’s fucking disgusting, and you’re all a bunch of sentimental _assholes_ … but…”

    Laurent laughs into his ear, and his eyes are ever so slightly glossy when they pull back. Is Laurent going to cry? Yikes. “I mean it. I should have asked for your permission before I told them, but I wanted, after everything, I wanted—”

    “Don’t,” Nicaise cuts him off, in English. “Not now.”

    The moment of quiet stretches on for a beat before Victor claps his hands together, and both Laurent and Nicaise jump at the noise. “Come _oon~_ ” Victor whines. “We’ve done the cake, we sang the song, now can we open the presents?”

    “We,” Damen echoes flatly. “No, _Nicaise_ can open the presents and _you_ can watch.”

    Nicaise makes a noise of protest, moving to the sofa to flop down on it. “I can’t believe you all bought me things. If there is anything sappy I am throwing up and leaving. If it’s anything good and expensive then… I guess I can forgive you.”

    Yuri snorts a laugh and takes the place next to Nicaise on the couch. The huge sofa is made for at least four people but with Yuri and Nicaise sprawled out in relaxed poses, it deliberately leaves no room for anyone else. Makkachin, Victor’s dog, lets out a helpless whine upon the discovery of the space issue and tries to paw his way onto the sofa. Yuri shoves him away.

    “No,” Yuri says, disgruntled. “Victor, your beast is doing it again. You know I fucking hate dogs.”

    “I wish you would stop insulting him when he is in the room,” Victor says, clicking his tongue so that Makkachin’s attention is shifted.

    Yuri leans his head back and lets out an over-exaggerated, exasperated tone. “ _Enough_ , your dog can’t understand what we say!”

    Nicaise laughs. “Look,” he turns to Makkachin and puts on his best, half-excited, honey sweet tone. “Who’s the ugliest fucking dog in the entire world? Who should just fuck off and leave Yuri and I alone because he smells like shit and drools half the time? Is it you? Yes, it is.”

    Proving their point, Makkachin bounces excitedly, tail wagging behind him. Victor tugs him towards the armchair that Victor and Yuuri are desperately trying to fit into together, and pulls Makkachin into their laps. Nicaise laughs at the priceless, utterly insulted expression on Victor’s face.

    “Yes, well,” Victor says indignantly, curling his arms around Makkachin. “He doesn’t understand English.”

    “Oh, my god,” Yuri starts. “I can insult your dog in Russian too if you—”

    “Alright, alright!” Damen says, cutting off the conversation. “Are we going to open these gifts or what?”

    “Thank you for leaving me a place to sit,” Laurent drawls sarcastically as he helps Damen move the last of the presents to the coffee table in the center. “Can you at least pass me a cushion so I don’t have to sit on wood?”

    “Yes, please leave the _sitting on wood_ until you and Damen are alone,” Yuri says and there’s a ripple of laughter through the group which deepens at the unimpressed curve of Laurent’s eyebrow.

    “Sitting on wood isn’t the worst thing to do,” Yuuri says casually, passing one of the cushions from the armchair.

    “You are all very funny,” Laurent says, dropping the cushion onto the floor. “Truly. Pass me a few more.”

    Nicaise throws one of their cushions towards Laurent, as forcefully as he can and grins as Laurent barely manages to catch it. It sparks something, and then Yuri and Nicaise are both throwing their cushions in Laurent and Damen’s direction.

    “Wait!” Victor calls as one of Yuri’s cushions misses by a large margin and grazes the edge of the mirror above the mantelpiece. “Watch the decor! _Быть осторожен!_ _”_

    “Okay, okay!” Damen says, barely dodging the last cushion. “That’s enough, we have enough cushions!”

    Laurent and Damen lower themselves down into the pile of cushions on the other side of the coffee table and Nicaise can’t help but smirk at how ridiculous Damen looks as he tries to fit himself on the floor and tuck his large legs under the coffee table, and fails. Laurent, however, leans back on his hands, looking comfortably at ease.

    “You can open this one first,” Victor says, handing him one of the presents. “It is from me.”

    “No shit,” Nicaise says as he looks at the poodle wrapping paper. “I would never have guessed.”

    “Open it!” Victor says impatiently, almost hitting Yuuri as he moves back on the armchair. “Yuuri and I got you something between us too, but I _had_ to get you this too.”

    “Alright, shut up,” Nicaise says, rolling his eyes. “Let’s get this over with as fast as possible so I can pretend this gross party never happened.”

    Nicaise forcefully rips off the wrapping paper, throwing it to one side and ignoring Yuri’s protest as it falls in his lap. There’s a moment of silence as Nicaise stares at the box in his hands. Yuri leans over his shoulder, and snorts.

    “A selfie stick? You got him a fucking selfie stick?” Yuri laughs, pulling it out of Nicaise’s hands. “What the fuck?”

    “I know,” Victor says, almost dreamily. “Isn’t it cool?! They’ve really revolutionized the entire instagram experience if you ask me. _And_ I noticed you don’t upload much to instagram so I thought maybe if you had _this_ ~”

    “I’m sorry,” Yuuri sighs, sounding defeated. “I told him not to.”

    Nicaise thinks he might kill Victor. Yes, he thinks he is going to get up and choke him with the ribbon that came around the parcel.

    Yuri unboxes the selfie stick and snatches Nicaise’s phone, clipping it in place. He shifts so that his back is pressed against Nicaise’s side, and holds it out above them. “Come on, let’s pose for a photo of exactly how we feel about Victor’s gift.”

    There’s a moment in which Victor’s eyes glimmer with excitement until Nicaise puts his finger up towards the camera. Yuri does the same, and all the happiness dies in Victor’s eyes. “Perfect.” Yuri chimes, unclipping the selfie stick and throwing it in Victor’s direction. “Keep it.”

    “I already have one,” Victor says petulantly.

    “Then you can have two, you vain piece of shit,” Nicaise laughs. Yuri does not move from his place against Nicaise’s side and Nicaise pretends not to notice. It’s _disgusting_ that Yuri is leaning against him like they’re some _couple;_ like Victor and Yuuri tangled together on the armchair, or Laurent and Damen’s casual pose on the cushions; but the weight against him isn’t the _worst_ thing he’s ever experienced, and so he lets it slide, even if the rest of the group will think they’re _boyfriends_ again.

    “ _Revolutionized the instagram experience_ ,” Laurent echoes after a few moments. “Did you really just say that?”

    “It’s true,” Victor says, pulling out his phone. “I can show you the photos I’ve—”

    “No,” is the unanimous chorused response and Victor sighs.

    “This is from me,” Damen says, sliding a birthday card across the table.

    “Please,” Nicaise deadpans. “Don’t spend too much on me. I’m overwhelmed.”

    He opens the card and picks out the small gift card from inside, throwing aside the birthday card without reading it. It’s for _Printemps;_ one of Paris’ best department stores teeming with designer wear and Nicaise lets out a small breath. He remembers the hideous set of clothing Damen had bought him for Christmas, and finds himself thankful that Damen didn’t make the same mistake this time.

    “How much—” Nicaise starts, turning the gift card over in his hands to see Damen’s carefully penned writing; _eighty euros. don’t spend it all at once, kid_. Nicaise looks up to find Damen grinning at him. “I—Thank you.”

    He thinks he’s going to buy a brand new coat for his first press conference in the new Grand Prix season. The freedom of it makes Nicaise’s chest feel strange, and he hates himself for it. Back—Back then, he was used to having his clothes _bought for him_ , was used to being told _‘this is what you look most beautiful in, Nicaise. This is what I want you to wear for your press conference. I love seeing you in this’_ and—there’s something so freeing about the idea of buying himself his next press conference outfit, but he’s hardly going to tell Damen that. He’s hardly going to tell _any_ of them that.

    “You could’ve put more than eighty on it,” Nicaise says icily, just to brush away the sickly sentiment of the moment. It doesn’t work though; Damen is still smiling.

    “These two are from Victor and I,” Yuuri says, handing over two parcels that are carefully and beautifully wrapped. Not in the poodle wrapping paper, thankfully. Almost as if reading Nicaise’s thoughts, Yuuri says; “I wrapped these ones.”

    “Cool,” Nicaise says, ripping open the packaging of the first one despite Yuuri’s protest of ‘ _if you unwrap it carefully, you won’t destroy the pretty wrapping.’_ The first gift is an bottle of wine— Japanese judging by the writing.

    Yuri leans over his shoulder again. “What’s the alcohol percentage?”

    “I can’t read Japanese,” Nicaise says, turning the bottle over in his hand before setting it down. “Thanks.”

    “You’re not supposed to drink it, Yurio,” Yuuri says, an edge of parental disapproval in his voice. “You’re like, twelve.”

    “Almost seventeen,” Yuri frowns. “And you didn’t complain when we were getting drunk last week when you were our designated driver.”

    Yuuri shrugs. “I have to pretend to care sometimes or else it looks bad.”

    Laurent huffs out a breath of laughter. “If that is _sak_ _é_ , I don’t think any of us should be drinking that again after last time. Especially not Yurio.”

    “This is coming from you,” Yuri drawls, raising an eyebrow. “You, the one who—”

    “Open the other one!” Victor cuts them off. “Please~”

    Nicaise rips the packaging open again, despite Yuuri’s second noise of protest, and turns over the small black box in his hands a few times. He’s been bought jewelry before, and he doesn’t particularly like receiving it anymore. He pushes down the sickly feeling in his chest, and opens the box. It’s not jewelry; it’s a watch. Expensive and silver, carved with roman numerals and glittering in the light of Victor’s living room. He slides it out of the padded case and clicks it into place on his wrist. It looks _good._

    It looks _expensive._

    “Holy shit,” Yuri breathes, reaching out to turn Nicaise’s wrist over in his hands. His fingers flutter over Nicaise’s pulse point and Nicaise hates the little jump of his heart. He lets himself look at Yuri for a few moments, at the parting of his lips as Yuri breathes out a little noise of approval. Before Yuri can catch him looking and call him out on how _stupid_ it is, Nicaise averts his gaze and looks back at the watch. “This must have cost a fortune. I hope you’re going to buy me something like this when it’s my birthday.”

    “It’s only because Victor and I split the cost and bought it together,” Yuuri says. “If we’re still together when it’s your eighteenth birthday then—”

    “If we’re still together,” Victor says, insulted. “Thank you for your faith. You’re supposed to say; _since Victor and I are spending the rest of our lives together, we’ll always buy everyone nice, expensive joint gifts.”_

Yuuri silences him with a kiss, and Nicaise makes a gagging noise. Yuri does the same beside him. “That’s what I meant to say.”

    “Laurent, this last one must be from you, I guess?” Nicaise picks up the last gift and turns it over in his hands. He knows Yuri won’t have bought him anything, and he’s glad. He doesn’t want Yuri _buying him gifts._ He would beat him if he bothered to act sentimental and sweet.

    “Uh, no,” Damen says, frowning. “I think that’s from Mila. She sent it by post not long ago when she heard from Victor that it was your birthday.”

    There’s a moment in which everyone turns to look at Laurent. Laurent shrugs a shoulder. “We can’t do joint presents too?” Laurent says, casually, but there’s a strange colour to his cheeks that makes Nicaise think Laurent is evading the subject. Nicaise’s suspicions are confirmed when Damen’s brow furrows into a frown, as if he weren’t informed of this joint present thing. It’s fine, Nicaise thinks. It’s fine. Laurent did not buy him anything, and Nicaise does not care. He hates gifts, he hates sentiment, and if anyone should know that aside from Yuri, it’s Laurent.

    Mila’s gift is a scarf—like Nicaise doesn’t have enough of those already, great—and Nicaise drapes it over the armrest of the sofa, utterly thankful that the debacle is over, and leans back.

    He looks up at the patterns of the ceiling, lets himself zone out to the chatter of the group as they discuss food, and then closes his eyes. Yuri’s weight is warm against him and Nicaise lets out a sigh. He didn’t hate it; this whole… birthday thing. It was awkward and the _niceness_ of it made Nicaise want to puke, but it wasn’t—it was okay. They care about him, and _Laurent_ cared enough to tell everyone it was his birthday. No one has ever cared it was his birthday before.

    It’s over an hour before Laurent’s behaviour makes itself clear to Nicaise. Damen brought out food and dished out cake after they exchanged presents, and everyone begrudgingly posed for Victor’s group selfie (ft. the selfie stick), and it’s only when Yuuri starts up his spotify playlist on the bluetooth speakers that Laurent’s hand catches the fine bones of Nicaise’s wrist.

    “ _Viens avec moi,”_ Laurent says, his voice dipping a little so that it is carried away beneath the thrums of Yuuri’s music. There’s a weird uneasiness in Nicaise’s stomach as Laurent pulls him into the kitchen, before Nicaise has to remind himself that this is _Laurent._ There is never any reason to be scared around _Laurent._

    “What is it?” Nicaise asks as the door clicks shut behind Laurent. There’s a flush on Laurent’s cheeks that does not suit his pale complexion and Nicaise raises an eyebrow. “What?”

    “I—” Laurent clears his throat. “I didn’t want to— out there. I thought, perhaps, it was better to do it when it is just you and I. I know how much you hate sentimentality.”

    “What—?” Nicaise starts, trailing off as he watches Laurent’s hand lift up, reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a small, silver-wrapped box. _Oh._

“Did you really think I would not get you anything?” Laurent says, a breath of laughter escaping his lips. He holds out the box in his hand and Nicaise slowly takes it.

    “I hoped you wouldn’t,” Nicaise says, rolling his eyes. “I hate—”

    “Things like this, yes, I know. You hate people _caring_ about you,” Laurent says coolly, leaning on the counter, his delicate fingers spreading out across the smooth black surface. “Or at least, you pretend to hate it when people care. I know.”

    “It’s not… It’s not pretend,” Nicaise says, but his fingers tremble as he slides them under the edge of the wrapping. When he opens the box, there’s a thin silver ring inside that Nicaise _recognises._ He’s only seen it twice before; once by accident in the drawer of Laurent’s bedroom when he was searching for a scarf to steal two years ago, and a second time, when he’d had the courage to ask about it, Laurent had sat him down and showed him again.

    Nicaise’s heart beats a thunderstorm in his chest, in his ears, and he feels dizzy as he looks down at _Auguste de Vere’s signature ring._ He doesn’t—he doesn’t understand. There must be some kind of _mistake._ This must be a replica, or—he takes it out, and notices the ring has clearly been adjusted to fit the fine bones of Nicaise’s fingers, but the engraving on the inside is more or less intact, and identical to the ones of the original ring.

    “This is—” Nicaise breathes out, the shock rippling through his system. “Is it—?”

    “Yes,” Laurent says, his tone unreadable. “That’s the real one. It’s my brother’s ring.”

    “But—” Nicaise slips it onto his index finger, unthinkingly, and holds out his hand. The silver of the ring glimmers in the fluorescent white kitchen lighting, and so does the silver watch on his wrist. He feels—it’s overwhelming; Nicaise can feel his breath trembling as it rattles out of his lungs, past his lips.

    “I wanted you to have it,” Laurent says, as casually as he can. “I know that you hate sentiment, but—well. You are as much my brother as Auguste was, and I thought—”

    Nicaise’s vision blurs a little and he blinks once, twice, three times to clear it. “You sappy, disgusting, pathetic _enfoiré_.” He mumbles, staring at the ring on his index finger. Laurent laughs, a shaky, breathless noise, and Nicaise knows that Laurent is more than aware of the tremble of his breath too.

    “Listen to me, Nicaise,” Laurent says suddenly, a strange edge to his voice that tells Nicaise the moment is gone. Nicaise’s eyes flicker up, and there’s something hard and dead in Laurent’s eyes. There’s an urgency in Laurent’s voice that Nicaise does not understand, and so he drops his hand and stares, holding his breath. “Do you remember what I said to you? When you dropped my uncle as your coach?”

    “Yes,” Nicaise says instantly, suppressing the shudder at the mention of _him._ He remembers how Laurent had told Nicaise he was going to look after him, was going to protect him from his uncle, and how Nicaise had spat at his feet and deliberately, emphatically told him to _fuck off._

    “I meant it,” Laurent tells him, as if there’s something of deadly import to his words. “And I still mean it.”

    “I don’t—” Nicaise says, blinking.“I know that…?”

    “No,” Laurent says, and drags his nails across the black granite of the kitchen counter as he pushes himself into an upright, standing position. Straight backed and serious, as if he has come to some sort of decision that Nicaise does not understand. “I mean it, Nicaise.” A beat. “We should go back to the party.”

    Nicaise blinks. “Laurent, I—?”

    “Come on,” Laurent says, and when he smiles, the hardness in his eyes is gone, as if the cryptic moment never passed between them. “I didn’t go too far with the present, did I?”

    Nicaise looks down at his hand again and tries to force himself into the new moment that Laurent is creating after whatever that was. “No, I— I cannot believe you think of me as highly as you think of Auguste. That’s disgusting, I thought I told you already that I hate you? I expected sentiment from everyone else, but not you.”

    “It is your eighteenth birthday, Nicaise,” Laurent says, opening the door so that the muffled sound of the music drifts into the kitchen, invading the weird atmosphere of their conversation. “I am allowed to be sentimental once in awhile.”

     “Laurent, what did you mean when you said—” Nicaise starts, but Laurent’s attention is caught elsewhere.

    “I didn’t make those _Hors d’Oeuvres_ so that you could feed them to your dog, Victor!” Laurent calls, walking out into the living room. Nicaise stays in the doorway, swaying a little from the heaviness of all his thoughts. The strange conversation with Laurent lingers in the back of Nicaise’s mind, still nonsensical even after Nicaise has replayed it over. He decides, after a few moments, that the dead look in Laurent’s eyes must have been because they were talking about Laurent’s uncle, and that memory is not particularly easy for either of them.

    The watch on his wrist is a heavy weight against his skin; the ring cold around his finger. He’s so hyper-aware of them; of the physical manifestations that prove that these people; these friends—family— of his actually _care_ about him. He hates that the thought tugs a smile onto his lips and reminds himself that the entire spectacle is disgusting. Yes. Definitely disgusting.

    Yuri joins him in the doorway of the kitchen, an exasperated look in his eyes. “Where did you go? Pork Boy tried to get me to dance some pathetic routine with him, and Victor is actually talking about finding his _Twister_ board. You left me _alone_ with them.”

    “I was with Laurent,” Nicaise says, smirking. “But I might go and disappear for a while longer, if it means seeing you get dragged into playing Twister.”

    “Fuck you,” Yuri says, huffing out a breath. “What did Laurent want?”

    “He gave me my birthday present,” Nicaise says, holding out his hand to show Yuri the ring.

    “He got you a ring? Are you marrying him?” Yuri says, disdain running through his voice. “That’s weird.”

    “Shut up,” Nicaise snorts. “It was… It was Auguste’s ring.”

    “Auguste, as in Laurent’s dead brother?” Yuri says, pulling up Nicaise’s hand to look at the ring again. Their fingers brush together and Nicaise pulls his hand away before it starts to feel as if they’re _holding hands._

    “Yes, Laurent’s dead brother.”

    “But why…?” Yuri frowns, brushing some of his own hair out of his eyes. “Doesn’t it— if it was his brother’s ring, surely it has to mean a lot to him.”

    “Yes,” Nicaise says, glancing down at his hand again. His heart beats irregularly again, the disbelief of the situation hitting him with full force all over again. “I think it does.”

    “I suppose,” Yuri considers. “Better to give it to a living brother than let it collect dust because of a dead one. He must think of you like his brother. I hope you punched him for being gross and _dewy-eyed._ ”

    “I thought about it,” Nicaise smirks. “But then I thought that punching someone kind of ruins a party so if I am going to punch anyone, it is going to be you.”

    “If you want to start a fight, I’m not going to go easy on you just because it’s your birt—”

    “Yurio, Nicaise!” Victor calls from the other room. “Are you playing _Twister_ with us?! I convinced Laurent to play, it will be fun! He never plays our games!”

    Nicaise looks at Yuri, catching his eye, and they both frown, urgent desperation in their eyes. “Do you want to get out of here?”

    “Please,” Yuri says, shoving Nicaise back into the kitchen. “Maybe there’s a window we can climb out of before Victor finds us.”

    “We can make it out of the back door,” Nicaise says, reaching back to grab Yuri’s hand and drag him away.

    “Wait!” Victor calls. “Where are you going?!”

    “ _Run,”_ Yuri urges, his fingers unthinkingly sliding between Nicaise’s, and they both break into a sprint for the door.

    Even with a head start, Yuri and Nicaise learn the hard way that Victor Nikiforov is just as fast off the ice as he is on it. Nicaise thinks about strangling _himself_ this time with the ribbon from the presents as Yuri spins the _Twister_ disc (he and Yuri played rock paper scissors over who would get to miss out on participating) and says, in a bored voice: “Nicaise, put your left hand on green.”

**Author's Note:**

> this series won't be 100% feel good (although it will have a Lot of happiness), it won't erase the canonical child abuse in Captive Prince, homophobia, mental illness, or the political states of some countries. Nothing will be fetishized, everything will be dealt with well, and Everything will be warned accordingly at the beginning of fics and in the tags. If you have any questions about anything, catch us on tumblr: [Emma](http://yuriplitsesky.tumblr.com) / [Alex](http://achillesandpatroclvs.co.vu)


End file.
